Ren stood on the gore-slicked dancefloor, blood sluicing down her armour. Dancing holograms still gyrating in the wet smears, and the pounding music seemingly quiet in the absence of screams.
Staring, smiling, at what remained of the Syndicate Children—the Cool Kids.
They had made me, saved me, she sneered at that thought. They had taken her dead, junkie's body, fused armour-scale tech to it, trained it to kill.
Made her into this abomination.
***
Ren sat on a ledge, 172 floors above the street, combat boots swinging.
Whispering, “Cool Kids never sleep.”
Leaning forward, she pushed off.
Falling—finally—to sleep.
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